


Happy Dean, Sleepy Dean

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, FWP, Fluff, Fluff Bingo, Fluff without Plot, Just a little mini fic thing, Sam is in it for a second don't get yourself excited, The rest - Freeform, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, You can't sing, as they say kids, dean is sick, is history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 20:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Dean has got a bad case of food poisoning and needs some help getting to sleep. FLUFF.Check for cavities.





	Happy Dean, Sleepy Dean

Growing up your mom had told you that you couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket. When you wanted the be in the church choir as a kid they’d put you in the back so the kids in the front would drown you out. It wasn’t so bad, it’s not like you had dreams of being a rock star or anything. Singing was just a hobby and there was a freedom in knowing that you were awful but doing it anyway. Just for the simple love of the thing.  

In adulthood, it becomes one of your secrets. Tucked away in a hidden spot in your heart. You sing to express yourself because you’re not sure you ever really learned all the words. Songs already have their lyrics.

It used to be easy to hide. You were on the road a lot, alone. Plus, when you were hunting muttering songs to yourself kept you grounded. It’s pretty hard to let fear get the better of you in a haunted house when you’re singing a cheesy song from the nineties under your breath.

Call it a by-product of your loneliness. You needed to fill the silence somehow and you did it humming a tune or singing a song. Not caring if your voice was able to reach that killer high note because there was nobody else around and dammed if you weren’t going to try and reach it anyway. Singing reminded you that you weren’t alone even when you were.

Moving in with the boys a few years back made singing not so necessary anymore, your life was rarely quiet when you lived with the Winchesters. But when it was, and the itch was too much to not scratch, you had your ways.

Sometimes you encouraged the boys to go out on supply runs without you, even if you needed something. You’d get up earlier than Sam occasionally so that you could sing in the kitchen. You had the skinny on which rooms in the bunker were the most soundproof because you had tested them all at this point.

Hot tip; the bedrooms have surprisingly thin walls in spite of all the brick but the computer room, the dungeon, and the gun range? You could let angels talk down there and they’d never be heard.

Right now, you’re singing somewhere you rarely get to but that actually has the best acoustics of the whole joint. The library.

Sam is out running because he hates himself and doesn’t know how to correctly channel the emotion. Dean is out in search of something, honestly, you didn’t listen too hard because he started talking about a part he wanted for one of the bikes in the garage. You normally escape too much explanation if you glaze your eyes over until he rolls his and huffs away.

It sounds mean yes, but if you pretend to be interested he will try and give you much more information than you will ever need, or care, to know.

At first, you’d just sat down in the library to read a few articles you’d bookmarked days ago. You hadn’t planned to start anything. But it had been quiet. Too quiet.

It starts with you drumming your fingers on the table. Alternating between the pads of your fingers and your nails against the wood to gain some variety in sound. Then you’re humming a tune to harmonize with your own tapping. Eventually, you’re holding your curled fist like a microphone and singing to your audience of books. They’re a good audience and they’ll never tell Sam about this.

The concert is stirring. Never has the world seen a performer with such a range. Because you don’t have the range, of course. Your high notes are scratchy, and your low notes sound hollow. But the critics in your head call your voice unique. You’re going pretty full pelt with some Bon Jovi when the bunker door slams.

There’s no time to thank your fans for coming out as you slide back into your seat, unfurling your fist and tapping away at your laptop like you’d been on it the whole time. Even though the screen has locked itself by now and you can see your own panicked eyes reflected back in the dark screensaver.

The key to getting away with this is not looking up first. Play it cool. Whichever Winchester it is definitely didn’t hear you drowning cats and the less suspicious you look the more likely they are to believe they’re going insane, rather than investigate the sound.

“Can you give me a hand?” Dean’s voice drifts through the room as his boots stomp down the stairs.

You jump up and meet him halfway with far more bags than one part required. “What’ve you been buying?”

You got this. You’re ice cool.

He passes you two of the four bags he had been impressively carrying on his own as he answers you, “stopped for some stuff I knew we needed. We’re out of eggs, right?”

“Erm, maybe?”

“Correction. We _were_ out of eggs.” He grins at you like you’re hiding the medal for egg buying behind your back. You aren’t. Such an award does not exist.

“Ok… great?”

Once he realizes you won’t be offering him a gold star his face settles into exasperated as he shuffles off to the kitchen. Watching him go you can’t help but sigh with relief, feeling every muscle in your body relax. You are very lucky, or Dean is very deaf, either way, you were totally off the hook.

* * *

Groans float through the corridors of the bunker like music in the air. Except these are the musical stylings of someone in pain, or if you didn’t know any better you might think it was an animal trapped somewhere.

When you find the source of the sounds it is a much more unexpected sight than a possum.

Dean is lying on his bed in an almost fetal position and clutching his stomach. While it would appear that he is sick this is a sight you have never seen before. Dean does not get sick, you’ve joked in the past that he must have the cure for the common cold pumping through his veins.

“Dean? You ok?” You take slow steps into the room like jostling the air might make him moan again.

“No. I’m dying Y/N. Go get Sammy so I can say goodbye.”

Ok, maybe there’s a reason Dean never gets sick, apparently, he’s an absolute baby. His immune system must be as good as it is to protect other people from his suffering. “You’re not dying. Just tell me what’s wrong.”  

“I thought it was food poisoning, but it turns out I don’t have insides anymore.”

You bite your bottom lip to stop yourself from laughing at his ridiculousness. Once your smile is stifled you realize that you’re going to have to look after him since he doesn’t appear to be capable of it himself. 

“Ok, ok. Lay back, let’s get you comfy since you’re just going to have to wait this out.” Easing him to lay back on his bed is one thing but the look of absolute anguish on his face is another ballgame entirely. His face is scrunched so tightly you’re half convinced it’ll never smooth out and his slack jaw hangs like it’s disconnected from the rest of him.

When you’re satisfied that he’s as comfortable as he can be right now you turn around to leave only for him to wrap his clammy fingers around your wrist, “where are you going?”

You tuck his hand into his side, “you need water.” Apparently, the thought of putting anything in his mouth is enough to trigger something in his gut because he clutches it tightly as you continue, “I know. It sucks but being dehydrated will only make it worse. I’ll be back, I promise.”

On the way to the kitchen, you inform Sam of Dean’s predicament and Sam remarks how glad he is that he doesn’t eat eighty percent of the food Dean does. You wonder if he means the variety of food or the sheer volume. He also mentions that he’ll stop by and take down Dean’s last will and testament just as soon as he’s finished the book he’s reading.

The book is suspiciously heavy.

Dean is where you left him when you get back and he only resists a little when you make him take a sip of water. By resisting a little you mean he whines like you killed his puppy or something. However, the look of relief on his face when you smooth a cold, damp cloth over his forehead is the equivalent of resurrecting the puppy and potty training it to boot.

“A little better?”

He manages a half smile, which you’ll take because you know he feels terrible right now, “little bit. How long does this usually last?”

Typical. He’s never had food poisoning it seems. You bet he never got pimples as a kid either.

“Depends on which bug you caught but like, one to three days max. Any longer than that and I’m taking you to see a doctor.”

He pales even further, which didn’t seem possible. You’re wondering if it’s the threat of a medical professional or the potential of maybe feeling like this for three days.

Probably both.

“Do you want to do something while we wait it out? Think you can manage a movie?”

His face scrunches while he seriously considers the question but you’re not going to judge. You _have_ been victim to food poisoning before and you know it’s not a fun or pleasant experience.

“Unforgiven? Tombstone?” There’s hope in his voice that you couldn’t deny even if he wasn’t borderline pathetic right now.  

You grab his laptop and sit in the space that has appeared next to him. “We’ll watch so many of your dumb cowboy films that you’ll get tired of ‘em.”

There’s a flash of normal Dean on his face as you start preparing the first film, “don’t make promises you can’t keep sweetheart.”

* * *

Somehow you get through three movies. There are toilet breaks obviously, the guy has food poisoning for crying out loud, and you make yourself some popcorn that you keep out of his reach figuring it’s an inoffensive snack to someone who can’t eat. He even manages to finish his glass of water and start on a second.

But as the credits roll on The Wild Bunch you have to admit defeat. Not just because you’re done with all the shootouts, but Dean is somehow out for the count. He’s curled up again, head resting on the pillow next to you but a heavy arm over your waist, he’s holding you to him like a life-sized teddy bear.

At least, you think he’s out for the count until you lean over a little to slide the laptop away when he stirs, grumbling, and tightens his grip, “’m finally comfortable, stop moving.”

He can’t see the incredulous look on your face, but you know it’s there. “Excuse me? I’m not staying here just so you can sleep. I’m not even tired yet.”

He huffs, and you feel his hot breath skim the gap between your t-shirt and jeans where he’s hugging your middle, “great, now I’m awake.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, almost fully apologetic but taking the opportunity to at least wiggle down the bed so that you’re laying down too. He raises an eyebrow at you, but you shrug against his hold, “if you need me here to get back to sleep I’ll be nice and stay… Since you’re sick and all.”

He pouts in your direction despite your stellar caregiving so far, “no movie to put me back to sleep now though.”

“What do you want from me? A stirring rendition of an Eastwood monologue?”

He snuggles into his pillow next to you, a ghost of a smirk as he answers, “nah. How about some Bon Jovi instead?”

Your face flushes but you don’t try to move. It’s too late. You’ve been caught and he’s been walking around with the information for almost two days now.

“You heard me?” You ask the obvious question anyway.

“Are you kidding? I’m not deaf.”

Well, there goes your guess as to how you got away with it.

He pulls at your waist a little bringing your attention back to him, “come on, just sing me something. I need some noise.”

“Oh, that’s nice, I’m just a random noise machine?”

“Please?”

The problem is, as much as you don’t sing around anyone, singing is your little secret, it’s hard to say no to Dean on a good day. You’d probably genuinely do it if he asked like that at full health but today especially he’s been all extra vulnerable and it’s weakened the little resolve you have.

On top of that, there’s the fact that when you open your mouth and start quietly singing the same Bon Jovi song he’d interrupted days ago he doesn’t flinch at the sound. He doesn’t wrinkle his nose or tell you to shut up.

His whole-body melts against you. He mummers happily and settles into sleep midway through your second song while your hand traces circles on the arm of his that’s holding you down. And you did that. You gave him that peace while he feels like crap. Maybe you didn’t need to be able to sing after all. Dean seems pretty cozy listening to you and that’s good enough.


End file.
